


The Dangers of Blood

by Kerjack



Series: The White Dragons, Lords of Duskendale [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23612818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerjack/pseuds/Kerjack
Summary: The greatest exterior threat to the Targaryen dynasty was defeated at the Neck twenty years ago. But then again, the biggest threat-exterior or otherwise- the Targaryens have ever faced has always been themselves...
Series: The White Dragons, Lords of Duskendale [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699636
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	1. Dramatis Personae

**Author's Note:**

> So, as you might have guessed by the new associated series, this story is a sequel to and will take place 18 years after one of my previous works, 'The Dragon of Duskendale', and will focus on the descendants of the main character of that story, Aelor Targaryen. If you haven't read that and have no clue who the hell I'm talking about, I suggest you go check it out first, or you'll be terribly lost. 
> 
> This is the first mini-story completed in the story; there will be others, some several chapters long and some oneshots. Keep in mind they are not in any particular chronological order either.
> 
> I have several written and posted years ago on the dot net (this particular work is already complete actually), that I've now decided to transfer over and hopefully add more to gradually. Writing these for my own fun above all, but I hope any fans of DoD will enjoy them as well. 
> 
> First chapter is an index, second is actual story content. Cheers!

AC 322, 18 years after the events of 'A Dragon of Duskendale'

**House Targaryen of King's Landing**

King Aegon Targaryen (41) and wife Aemma Arryn (36)

Prince Aelor Targaryen - 18, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne

Aelor's wife Vaella Targaryen - 20, cousin to the King, with child

-Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen - 2, son of Aelor and Vaella and third in line for the Iron Throne

Prince Vaekar Targaryen - 8, betrothed to Lady Viserra Targaryen

Princess Daenerys Targaryen (39), aunt to the King and member of the Small Council, and her husband Ser Melwys Celtigar (41)

-Rhaella Targaryen - 16, recently married to Edwyn Mallister

-Aerion Targaryen - stillborn

-Ardrian Targaryen - 10, not betrothed

-Vaelon Targaryen - 7, not betrothed

**House Targaryen of Duskendale**

Lord Lucaerys Targaryen (21) and wife Daenella Waters (23)

Baelor Targaryen - 3, heir to Duskendale and twin to Baela, not betrothed

Baela Targaryen - 3, twin to Baelor, not betrothed

Lady Alysanne Lefford Targaryen - 58, grandmother of Lord Lucaerys and widow of Prince Aelor Targaryen the Dragon of Duskendale

**House Targaryen of the Golden Tooth**

Lord Aemon Targaryen (37) and wife Shireen Baratheon (35), sworn to Casterly Rock

Rhaella Targaryen - 13, betrothed to Jaime Lannister

Rhaegar Targaryen - 11, heir to the Golden Tooth, not betrothed

Visenya Targaryen - 10, betrothed to Humfrey Redwyne

**House Targaryen of the New North**

Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen (39), brother to the King, and wife Val (40), sworn to Winterfell

Alysanne Targaryen - 18, married to Royce Bolton

Lyanna - 15, not betrothed

Rhaenys Targaryen - 13, not betrothed

Aemon Targaryen - 10, heir to the New North, not betrothed

Aelor Targaryen - 7, not betrothed

**House Targaryen of Summerhall**

Lady Viserra Targaryen - 5, betrothed to Prince Vaekar Targaryen

Her mother Daena Waters - 23, twin to Deanella Waters, married to Ser Alman Meadows, additional issue

**House Stark of the North**

Lord Brandon Stark (33) and wife Saera Targaryen (25)

Meera Stark - 7, not betrothed

Cellador Stark - newborn, heir to the North, not betrothed

Sansa Stark - 36, sister of Lord Brandon, married to Lord Domeric Bolton, issue

Arya Stark - 34, sister of Lord Brandon, captain of Winterfell's guard, married to Harlon Karstark, issue

Rickon Stark - 29, brother of Lord Brandon, married to Alla Manderly, issue

Catelyn Tully Stark - sister of Lord Edmure Tully and mother of Sansa, Arya, Rickon and Lord Brandon

**House Arryn of the Vale**

Lord Artys Arryn (36), twin brother to the Queen, and wife Margaery Tyrell (38)

Rodrik Arryn - 18, heir to the Vale, married to Priscilla Rykker

Willas Arryn - 14, not betrothed

Jon Arryn - 10, not betrothed

Lysa Tully Arryn - mother of Lord Artys and Queen Aemma and sister of Lord Edmure Tully, maddened since the death of her youngest Robin at age of 19 of pneumonia

**House Tyrell of the Reach**

Lord Willas Tyrell (46) and wife Rhaenys Targaryen (42)

Alester Tyrell - 25, heir to the Reach, married to Malora Hightower, issue

Osmund Tyrell - 24, knight of the Kingsguard

Garlan Tyrell - 20, married to Falia Redwyne

Aelora Tyrell - 18, married to Lyonel Baratheon

Garlan Tyrell 'the Gallant' - 43, widower of Leonette Fossoway, issue

**House Baratheon of the Stormlands**

Lord Steffon Baratheon (29) and wife Alyssa Targaryen (22)

Stannis Baratheon - stillborn

Argella Baratheon - 3, heiress to the Stormlands

Lyonel Baratheon - 23, brother of Lord Steffon, married to Aelora Tyrell

**House Lannister of the Westerlands**

Tyrion Lannister (53), Hand of the King, and his wife Elinor Prester (35), the Shebull of Feastfires

Jaime Lannister - 14, heir to the Westerlands and ward of Lord Aemon Targaryen, betrothed to Aemon's daughter Rhaella

Joanna Lannister - 10, a dwarf girl, not betrothed

**House Tully of the Riverlands**

Lord Edmure Tully (51) and his wife Liane Vance (40)

Hoster Tully - 17, heir to the Riverlands, betrothed to 13-year old Beony Whent

Elmer Tully - 13, not betrothed

Catelyn Tully - 12, betrothed to Rorran Mallister

**House Martell of Dorne**

Princess Arianne (45) and her husband Ser Anders Santagar (42)

Princess Elia Martell - 18, heir to Dorne, married to her cousin Ser Oberyn Martell (son of Quentyn)

Princess Tyene Martell - 15, not betrothed

Aller Sand - 13, bastard son with paramour Ulwyth Vaith, the Lord of the Red Dunes, not betrothed

Prince Quentyn Martell - 41, brother of Arianne, father of Oberyn and Master of the Water Gardens, married to Gwyneth Yronwood, additional issue

Prince Trystane Martell - 39, brother of Arianne and Ser of the Spear Tower, married to Ellaria Dalt, one daughter

**House Mallister of the Iron Islands**

Lord Patrek Mallister (49) and his wife Mary Moore (50)

Justin Mallister - 27, heir to the Iron Islands, married to Kyra Royce, issue

Lora Mallister - 23, married to Lord Leo Rosby, issue

Rorran Mallister - 18, betrothed to Catelyn Tully

**The Kingsguard**

Lord Commander Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning

Ser Baelon 'Blooddragon' Targaryen

Ser Mychel Redfort

Ser Osmund Tyrell

Ser Alex 'Red Alex' Bulwer

Ser Alex 'Blue Alex' Rollingford

Ser Colmar Paege


	2. Chapter 2

Lord Eddard Stark certainly didn't look like a legend. But then again, this _was_ only a statue.

The stone likeness of the former Lord of the North stared out towards the center of the dark crypts, longsword across his lap and stone direwolf curled at his feet. Luke knew as well as anyone that a statue carved from memory was bound to deviate from the actual appearance of its muse, but he had still been expecting to look at the effigy of the Quiet Wolf and feel as if he were looking upon greatness.

But instead he was simply looking at another stone face, similar in features to the dozens of others under Winterfell. Shaggy hair and beard carved around a stern face spoke nothing of the reputation of the man they represented, he who had in his youth bent the knee to spare Northern lives and in his middle years had died defending his castle from death itself. Ned Stark had been the first man to kill an Other, shattering it into a thousand pieces to save the life of his nephew Jaehaerys Targaryen, and then had thrust a dagger into his own brain to prevent himself from joining their undead army, a hero's death for a man still spoken of reverently north of the Neck.

To Luke he just looked like another dead Stark resting with his forefathers. _But a stone can't capture the majesty of legends any more than it can the flush of life, and a man's deeds have little to do with his appearance. History won't tell of his brow, only his battles._

"Why in the name of the Seven are you still down here? Come, the King's party is in sight. Besides, it's even colder here than in our chambers, and a moment ago I wouldn't have thought that possible!"

A touch of a smile crossed his face as he turned towards the woman's voice. Daenella Waters hurried towards him, hugging her arms to herself as she near-sprinted down the center of the crypts. Layers of fur—Luke didn't know how many, for his wife seemed to add another every hour—were so thick around her shoulders that it hid the shapely form beneath them, rising so high off of her shoulders that they lay parallel to her prominent cheekbones. Her silvery-blonde hair was piled atop her head in in a mass of pins that was all the recent rage in King's Landing, though for the life of him Luke didn't understand why she and her handmaidens went through the process every day; his wife was a beautiful woman, showing the classic Targaryen beauty of their shared ancestors even if she didn't have the name.

"I have heard so many stories of Eddard Stark that I simply had to pay respects."

"To a _statue?_ " Luke gave a surprised grunt as Daenella barreled into him, burrowing herself under his arm. He would have found it sweet if he didn't know it was for warmth. _Okay, so I find it sweet anyway._ "He's not even related to us in any way."

"He'll go down in history as a hero of the Second War for the Dawn, along with my grandfather. It's not every day you get to visit the grave of a future legend, of a man history will always remember the name of."

His wife said nothing to that, and Luke grimaced at his own stupidity. Their marriage was a happy one, even if they didn't quite love one another, but the means by which it had come about was always in the background, ready to rear its ugly head. Daenella and he had been betrothed nineteen years ago, when he was a young lord of two and she a bastard girl of four. Neither of them had been awarded a say in it even when they were older, but even if they had it would have been overruled. Their marriage had been agreed upon for the security of the Iron Throne, not for any compatibility or match of royal blood between the two.

Luke was a powerful lord and the grandson of the man who had twice saved the Targaryen dynasty, and whose loyalty to King Aegon had been drilled into him since the day he was born. Daenella was the daughter of the traitor who had saw his quest for the throne destroyed at the hands of Luke's grandfather, and who had a claim that overly ambitious men could try and press for their own means. It had been a wise match then, nullifying Daenella's claim through her father Viserys by marrying her to the loyalty-assured grandson of Aelor, but Luke cursed it often when it caused an issue between he and his wife. _And it causes an issue much more often than I care to admit._

_Loyal Lucaerys, defender of the Crown. Even from my wife._

Luke cleared his throat awkwardly, changing the subject to something that never failed to cheer his wife. "Where are the twins?"

As it always did at the mention of their children, Daenella's mood perked up and a smile crossed her lips. "Alysanne and Alyssa stole them from me in every sense of the word. I believe Lord Brandon's sister was in on it as well; I half expect a betrothal proposition from Lord Domeric to either of them, and you had best believe Lady Sansa will be at the heart of it."

Luke shook his head in exasperation, keeping an arm wrapped around his wife as they began a slow stroll back out of the crypts through which she had just came. "They are three. _Three._ "

"They're also Targaryens, and every house in Westeros wants a piece of that pie."

He grunted, enjoying the warmth the contact almost as much as his wife did. _And as Targaryens, our place is somewhere warm. My aunt is certainly a tough woman to survive such temperatures in the bloody_ summer _._ "The Boltons already _have_ a Targaryen. Prince Jaehaerys' Alysanne married the heir Royce just this past year, remember?"

Daenella swung her hip into his playfully. "Oh, come now. They want a _real_ Targaryen."

Luke raised an eyebrow in bemusement. "And Prince Jaehaerys isn't? He's as much Targaryen as either you or I."

"Oh, you know what I mean, one that actually _looks_ like a Targaryen…and isn't constantly surrounded by wolves the size of horses."

Luke laughed aloud as they began to ascend the stairs out of the crypts. "Aye, they are _frightful_ beasts aren't they? Who would've thought a large dog would give me more of a chill than massive dragons do?"

Another voice spoke from halfway up the stairs of the crypts, full of humor and fake-reprimand. "Large dogs, Lucaerys? I dare say you'd best never let Meera here you call them that."

Luke grinned at the tall, attractive woman standing a few steps above them, fists on her hips as she shot them a sly smile. Lady Saera Targaryen Stark of Winterfell was by blood his aunt and by reality more like his sister, for they had been raised together at Duskendale on the shores of the Narrow Sea. At five and twenty she had grown from a long limbed girl to a tall, dignified woman, with a beauty that put you more in mind of her mother Alysanne despite the violet eyes, silver hair and broad shoulders Saera had inherited from her father. She had gone north to marry Lord Brandon the Wise Wolf nine years earlier, and in that time had adopted the northern furs and wools of her adopted home. She even wore her hair in a long, silver braid draped over one shoulder, a style considered fashion suicide in the south but seemed much more practical to Luke than his wife's elaborate hair.

Not that he'd ever tell Daenella that; he enjoyed life after all.

Saera moved to the side as the two other Targaryens stepped up even with her, Luke pressing a quick kiss to her cheek as she joined them in ascent. "By the Seven you're right, she'd likely feed me to Summer on the spot. Even in his old age that direwolf could rip my throat out."

His aunt hooked her arm through his, smile never having left her pretty face. "Aye he could, and I advise you not forget it. I half expected to find you two on top of one another disgracing Bran's ancestors down here; from what Alyssa wrote me, it was near a nightmare trying to save oneself from being traumatized in the early months of your marriage."

Daenella and Saera laughed while Luke blushed, a reaction that caused both women to laugh all the louder. Despite the embarrassment Lucaerys couldn't help but smile, swinging open the ironwood doors of the crypts to allow the two women to exit ahead of him. The courtyard of Winterfell was already bustling with activity, giving credence to his wife's earlier proclamation that the King's party grew nearer.

It was a largely unintended gathering at Winterfell, but Lord Brandon and the Starks had adjusted to it well. While the Northerners hadn't been prone to many gatherings under Lord Eddard and had continued down that isolated path under Lord Brandon, the Wise Wolf had organized a celebration for the birth of his new heir, Cellador, whom Saera had given birth to four moons ago. It was meant to be a feast for Lord Brandon, his lords and Saera's family, along with a melee in the Northern tradition.

That large-but-not-too-large event had more than quadrupled in size, however, when Prince Aelor, heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone, had made known his intent to ride north and participate. It had then increased in size again by a near unfathomable factor when his father King Aegon had decided to travel north to see his son fight and visit with his brother Jaehaerys. While jousting tournaments had been, was and likely always would be the rage of southern life, hundreds of knights and lordlings had opted to go north alongside their King both present and future. Even houses that wouldn't have members participating were coming, because the Seven knew if that house was going than this house certainly was as well. If a melee in the snows of the North was agreeable to Prince Aelor Targaryen then it was certainly agreeable to nearly all of the rest of the south, particularly if it opened an avenue for access to the Targaryen's as-of-yet not betrothed and may result in their houses being looked favorably upon by King Aegon.

Luke could have told them that the King didn't work like that, but such had been the way of court intrigue for nearly all of time.

The Starks had risen to the challenge, creating as much housing in Winterfell and Winter Town as they could for the coming influx of nobles. For those they couldn't house Lord Brandon had ordered massive tents and outdoor hearths to be built, to keep the guests as warm and happy as they could be made. Lucaerys imagined it was all one big headache to Saera and her husband, but the Lord of Winterfell was nothing if not a gracious host.

As if to confirm his earlier thought, Saera let out a great sigh. "I had best round up Meera and Cellador and fight my way to wherever my husband is in this mess. Ella, you'd best come with me; when I last saw my son, my sister had him in one arm and Baela in the other. Lady Sansa was making her escape with Baelor at the same time."

Daenella laughed, turning to press a kiss to Luke's lips. "I'll be back with the twins in just a few moments, love. Fight for a good spot; I want to see how young Vaekar handles all the attention!"

Luke watched his wife scurry away, smiling to himself as he drifted towards the edge of the growing crowd. Half of the Lord Paramount's were already present, with a handful of others still on the way. Luke could see the graybearded Lord Edmure Tully and his son Hoster in conversation with Edmure's sister, the aging but still beautiful Catelyn Stark. The Lord of the Riverlands was leaning heavily on an ironwood cane with a golden trout as its head, having never fully recovered from the wound that nearly cost him his leg at the Neck two decades earlier. Hoster, as Tully looking as Tully's got, had his young betrothed's arm linked through his, the young Beony Whent of Harrenhal unable to tear her eyes from the heir to the Riverlands handsome face.

Lord Willas Tyrell, he too leaning on a cane from an injury taken three decades earlier as opposed to two, stood with his wife Rhaenys, his youngest son Garlan and his brother, also Garlan, as well as his fiery daughter Aelora and her husband Lyonel Baratheon. Lord Willas' heir, Alester, and Alester's own young son Lorent had remained in Highgarden, but his second son Osmund would be arriving shortly with the King's retinue, the newest member of the Kingsguard. Lyonel's family stood with them, Lord Steffon holding his well-bundled daughter Argella on his shoulder. His wife Alyssa, another of Luke's 'aunts', was inside the castle, currently being tracked down by her sister and Lucaerys' wife.

House Mallister, new to their roles as Lord Paramount's, was interspersed with the nobles high and low in the courtyard. The longtime lords of Seagard had fought the Ironborn for generations, and had been granted dominion over the ravaged Iron Islands after King Aegon, Lord Aemon and Princess Daenerys had bathed them in dragonfire during the Cleansing seventeen years past. Lord Jason had been the first Mallister to reign from the half-destroyed Pyke, abdicating Seagard to his second son Kyle as he and his heir Patrek, the current lord, began the settling of their new home. It was a tough business, for the Ironborn smallfolk often rose against their Faith of the Seven overlords, but with few noble Ironborn houses left the revolts never grew to anything the Mallisters couldn't handle. The integration of the Iron Islands to the mainstream of Westerosi politics would be a long process, but Luke was certain the capable Eagles of Seagard would see the job done.

Only two of the Lord Paramount's wouldn't make the trip to Winterfell. Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King, was managing the Iron Throne in the absence of King Aegon, and had deferred representing the Lions of Lannister to his son and heir Jaime, who was still travelling north alongside his mentor Lord Aemon Targaryen of the Golden Tooth. Word around the capital was that the Halfman was in declining health, his age and dwarfism beginning to take their toll on the Giant of Lannister. Luke knew those rumors were in fact true; what his contacts in King's Landing didn't tell him Lord Tyrion himself did, for Lucaerys and the incredibly smart Imp had formed a friendship. It would be a sad day for Westeros when the Lord of the Westerlands died, but that day seemed to be drawing ever nearer. It broke Lucaerys' heart.

The other Great House representative not attending would be the chief Martell of Dorne, which was not surprising. Princess Arianne was a smart and diplomatic ruler, but Dorne was about as far from Winterfell as Westeros got. Regardless, her younger brother Trystane and her bastard son Aller Sand had sailed to White Harbor to represent their House, having joined the still-travelling Arryns of the Vale when they had also sailed into the city from Gulltown.

Luke smiled again as he watched the dozens of nobles laughing and talking negotiating. The coming weeks were bound to be one hell of a time.

Daenella found him not long after, carrying their silver-haired and indigo-eyed son in her arms. Behind her came his squire and half-brother, Alaric Rykker, making funny faces at Baela whom he carried in his arms. Luke's mother Myrcella Langward had remarried his father Renlor's childhood friend Aelor Rykker a few years after Ren had fallen at the Second Battle of the Trident. They said the future Lord of Hollard Hall looked much like his grandfather Alaric Langward had when he too was four and ten, tall and thin, though this Alaric had the golden hair of their mother as opposed to the black locks of the other Langwards and Rykkers. His twin brother Dontos—twins were strong in the Lannister-Langward bloodline, none could deny that—followed closely behind, identical in nearly every physical way to Alaric, though the former was dour of personality and the latter as gregarious as his father had once been.

Luke took Baelor from Danella, nuzzling the toddler's soft silver hair and eliciting a delighted giggle from the heavily-bundled child. His younger half-brothers stopped to either side of him, making Luke feel as short as Tyrion Lannister. While Lucaerys' father and both grandfathers had been tall men, Alaric Langward six and a half feet and Aelor and Renlor a few inches shy of that mark, Luke himself hadn't inherited it, being an inch shy of six feet. But while he hadn't gotten the height of his father or grandfathers, he had been gifted with the broad shoulders and muscled build of Aelor, almost twice as broad as his rail-thin younger brothers.

Alaric spoke first. "You've never told us, brother; are you going to participate in the melee?"

Dontos elbowed his ribs none-too-gently. "That's not how you address him. Luke may be our brother but he is also our liege lord and the man whom we're squiring for."

Alaric returned the elbow with a one-handed shove, also none-too-gentle. "How many times do we have to have this conversation? He's our _brother_ first."

"No, he's our _liege_ first you imbecile."

" _Imbecile?_ "

"Enough!" Luke cut in before it could escalate into a pissing contest between the two, his voice authoritative and firm. His squires/brothers instantly desisted, both having to clamp their mouths shut around the insults they had been about to hurl at one another. Daenella was barely containing her smile at the twins' bickering, his wife always finding their exchanges humorous. _I once found them humorous too, until their training matches became more about practicing their wit than their swordsmanship._ "I haven't decided yet. When I do, I assure you you'll be the first to know."

Alaric wasn't happy enough with that answer it seemed, for he continued speaking. "Well, even if you don't, are you opposed to _us_ entering? I think my brother and I would make quite the deadly duo."

"If you can remain silent for more than five minutes I may consider it." Inwardly though Luke knew the answer was already no. Melees were much more dangerous than jousting, particular the vicious ones of the north. Most of the Kingsguard would be participating, as would Prince Aelor and Ser Melwys Celtigar, as well as dozens of other notable fighters. The twins were good and Luke was no slouch himself, but he knew his limitations and the limitations of his brothers; the level of competition in the coming melee was far above their respective levels.

He was saved from whatever smart response Alaric had been about to give—for their certainly would have been one, Luke had no doubt—by the clatter and clop of an approaching party. The disorganized mass of noble bodies burst into action, by some black magic beyond Lucaerys' comprehension metamorphosing into even lines of waiting nobles in only a matter of moments. Lord Brandon was center of it all, as was his right as the hosting Lord. The other Lord Paramount's and their families were spread to either side, with lesser nobility behind them. Lucaerys' chosen position perpendicular to the Starks and other Great Houses but still in the front was perfect for his family; they were Targaryens, after all, though his holdings were a duchy and not a region.

The Royal Party was led through Winterfell's gates by Lord Commander Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard, the greatsword Dawn at the aging knight's side. Behind him rode two other Kingsguard side-by-side, Sers Alex Bulwer and Alex Rollingford, known as Red Alex and Blue Alex respectively for their birth house's colors. Behind them was a line of Targaryen retainers, twenty of them riding two abreast. This lead party turned their horses to both sides, forming a gauntlet that five figures rode through the center of.

Luke already had Ser Arthur pegged as the winner of the melee unless he was forced to face down Prince Aelor, in which case the Sword of the Morning would yield as his position demanded. Despite the age creeping up on the legendary knight he was still the greatest swordsman alive, with only one man truly skilled enough to challenge him. That man was one of the next five figures, a crimson dragon on his shield the only embellishment to his pure white Kingsguard armor. Baelon Blooddragon was said to be an embodiment of his father's two most prominent sides, the great warrior and the half-mad Targaryen. Grim, silent and perhaps even more ruthless a fighter than Luke's grandfather had been, the infamous knight was also the most trusted man in King Aegon's retinue, as loyal to the King and his family as any man ever could be.

If Blooddragon had been participating in the melee, Luke wouldn't have been so certain of Ser Arthur Dayne's victory. But Baelon hadn't participated in a tourney, be it jousting or the melee, in over six years, since that faithful day at Rosby. All agreed it was a freak accident; there was no way Baelon could have made his lance split in just the right spot for the remaining half to slip under his brother Daemon's helm, stabbing through his neck and killing him. No one, not even Daemon's young widow Daena—Daenella's twin—blamed the knight of the Kingsguard. Luke had been there, though he was still a young squire to King Aegon, and had watched in confused awe as Baelon never said or word or let a single emotion cross his face as his brother's lifeless body was carried from the tilting yard.

But the Blooddragon had yielded his next tilt that day before it could even be announced, and had never participated in a tourney since.

As it was, the Blooddragon dismounted first out of the party of royals, even as all others present—Luke included—sank on one knee. The Kingsguard assisted his sister Princess Vaella, stern-faced but beautiful, off of her mount—the future Queen hated carriages and loved the saddle—as the other three dismounted their own stallions. One was Ser Melwys Celtigar, consort to Princess Daenerys. The second was young Prince Vaekar Targaryen, eight years old and letting his violet eyes look over the sea of knelt people as if he had seen it all of his young life. _He has, of course._

The last figure was a spitting image of a younger King Aegon the Sixth. An inch or two taller than Luke with an athletic build, Prince Aelor of Dragonstone looked like the perfect Valyrian royal. Dressed all in black save for the Targaryen three-headed dragon stitched across his chest, a ruby-pommeled sword—mirrored after the fabled blade of his namesake for certain—was at his side. His silver hair was to his shoulders, violet eyes peering out of a clean-shaven, sculpted face. The stallion he had ridden was black of hide and as mean as his father's dragon, a descendant of the fabled destrier Warrior that had fallen alongside Luke's father at the Second Battle of the Trident.

Vaella stepped to his side, and Luke was struck by how equally beautiful and royal the pair looked.

Aelor stepped forward with a gregarious smile, beckoning them all rise with both baritone voice and waved hand. He stopped before Lord Brandon, reaching out to grasp the Wise Wolf's hand.

"Your Grace, Winterfell is yours."

Aelor smiled one of his many smiles. Luke knew the Prince had a smile for every occasion, some genuine and most not. This happened to be a genuine one. "Thank you, Lord Stark. Winterfell grows more beautiful each time I visit it." He turned to address all the nobles in the courtyard. "You'll have to forgive me, for I was so excited that I rode ahead and left most of the royal party." A course of expected laughter filled the castle bailey. Aelor let it finish as was also expected, ever the excellent diplomat. "My mother, son and cousins are a few miles back, along with House Arryn. As for my father…" A smile, this one also genuine, crossed his Valyrian lips. "I think you're about to find out."

As if on cue, the roar of a dragon filled the sky.

_Aelor certainly has a flare for the dramatic. I can't blame him, for it has quite the effect on us all._

Despite having seen them a thousand times over the years, Lucaerys still looked skywards along with every other head in the courtyard. Moments later a massive black form, winged and muscular with streaks of crimson in his scales, zoomed overhead to both delighted and terrified squeals. A smaller but still monstrous form, white and gold, was close on its heels, and finally a green and bronze brought up the rear, clearly in no rush. Balerion was still double the size of Aelon and Rhaegal, be it from having hunted earlier or just his nature, but all three were bigger than anything anyone would have dreamed of years earlier. Though they were the only flying dragons still, Rhaegal had lain one egg a year for four years straight, and to the realm's delight the first had hatched a mere half year earlier. The dragon, small and red, had seemed to bond with Princess Daenerys' youngest child, Prince Vaelon, who had named the dragon Raedes, or Scorpion. A childish name perhaps, but the dragon and the blood of the dragon seemed to be near soulmates.

Luke couldn't deny he was jealous of a boy of seven.

The dragons had been a brilliant show, but also one that had been planned for. While the dragons and particularly Balerion still did whatever they wished quite often, their bonds with their riders had given the dragonriders much more control over their beasts since the early years. An area away from the army of tents encamped outside of Winterfell but close enough for the dragonriders to control their mounts if necessary had been prepared, and it was from there that the King and his fellow Targaryen dragonlords rode horses into Winterfell's courtyard.

The King had always looked kingly, that none could deny. The spiked crown of King Maekar the First and Jaehaerys the Second covered long silver hair, which in turn framed a bearded Valyrian face. Also dressed all in black save for the crimson inner-lining of his cloak, Aegon the Sixth stood tall and straight, back straight and Blackfyre by his side as he strode from his black stallion to Lord Brandon, who had led the gathered nobles in kneeling again. He walked with the confidence and command of a man who had ruled an empire for nearly all of his life, and his charisma was as strong now as it had been in his youth. Luke wished for all the world he could look half as noble as his cousin did.

_It was my grandfather who taught him that. Perhaps one day I will learn it myself._

Luke watched from his kneeling position as Ser Melwys swept Dany, as beautiful at near forty as she had been at near twenty, off of her horse in a display that made Daenella sigh in a small swoon, a sound echoed by many a kneeling lady. Lord Aemon, growing portly around the middle and still uncomfortable in large crowds, had instantly walked to Vaella's side, engaging his younger sister in conversation as the King bid the nobles to rise once more.

Formalities were exchanged, great displays made, but before long the groups intermeshed, soon joined by the Arryns and the rest of Lord Aemon's party. More nobles were gathered in Winterfell's courtyard than had visited King's Landing in the last half a year.

With an inward twinge of delight, Lucaerys stepped into the fray of negotiations, both of deals and of relationships, that had begun in earnest already, ears out for anything that sounded remotely like what Varys had sent word for him to be wary of.

He had a job to do, one he was good at and one he oddly loved.

He was, after all, Loyal Lucaerys.


	3. Chapter 3

"Your wife is a beautiful lady, Lord Lucaerys, and as accomplished a dancer as I have ever seen." Luke smiled, for both statements were entirely true. His wife had her silver hair half up and half down, trailing down the open back of her equally silver dress with its white lacings. The mass of one color may have been seen as garish, but something about it combined with Daenella's striking violet eyes made it look terrific instead of tasteless.

And even if that hadn't been enough, her broad smile would have made her beautiful if she had been wearing only a sack.

"Thank you, my lord. I must say the same of Lady Sansa, for she seems to be the only woman on the floor as tireless as my Ella." That too was true, for Sansa Bolton with her traditional beauty hadn't left the floor since the dancing began, long after many younger lords and ladies had gone for a respite. The Lady of the Dreadfort and the Lady of Duskendale were currently in cahoots, laughing together as they simultaneously dragged half-unwilling partners onto the floor, Sansa her younger brother Lord Brandon and Daenella the quiet Lord Aemon.

The sight, both of Daenella's smiling face and sage Lord Aemon's terrified one, had Luke grinning like a madman as he turned towards Sansa's husband, Lord Domeric Bolton. Double Lucaerys' own age, the powerful northern vassal had long black hair with a heavy sprinkling of gray tied back into a braid, his eyes an odd pale that he had inherited from his father Roose. Of average height and features, the head of House Bolton was mostly unremarkable save for those eyes, and he near disappeared when standing next to his radiant wife. But while he didn't stand out physically, the Lord of the Dreadfort was a strong-willed, intelligent man, trusted by Lord Brandon as a diplomat and advisor. That was impressive in and of itself, for the history between the two men's houses was less than amicable.

But the Lord of the Dreadfort was smiling, a real smile by Lucaerys' usually-accurate estimation. Two other figures were with him, red from dancing with their arms interlocked, and Lord Bolton extended a hand towards them both. "I believe you remember my son and heir Royce, and of course Lady Alysanne."

Luke smiled, extending a hand to shake Royce's. The Bolton heir was tall, with the coloring of his mother, and reputedly an excellent archer and swordsman. "Of course. I anticipate you'll do well in the melee, Lord Royce." Luke turned to the shorter, lithe form beside him, taking one of her hands and pressing a kiss to the back of it. Alysanne Targaryen, blue eyed like her wilding mother and black haired like her royal father, grinned a familiar grin. "And _you_ , cousin, grow more beautiful by the day."

Even as he was greeting his kinswoman and her new husband, Luke noted the consistent shake in Lord Bolton's extended hand. _That_ was a fascinating story, though it had all occurred years before Luke had come to have any role in the kingdoms politics. Ramsay Snow, the only sibling—bastard or otherwise—of Domeric, had been infamously mad, though he had had the terrifying ability to hide it under layers of diplomacy and charm. The Bastard of Bolton had poisoned his elder brother on their first meeting before the War of the Three Kings, though that fact hadn't been made known until years later. It had nearly killed Lord Domeric, as was its intent, and the poison had left a semi-permanent tremor in the Lord of the Dreadfort's hands that periodically would flare up, as it appeared to be now.

It was rumored that Lord Domeric, having desperately wanted a sibling, hadn't believed his half-brother to be responsible. It was also rumored that his father, Lord Roose, had. Whatever the two men had or hadn't believed, no action had been taken against Ramsay. It wasn't until after Roose had died at the Wall and Lord Domeric had married Sansa and returned north with the other northern families that the Bastard of Bolton tried again. It had been a surprise coup, carried out in the dead of the night, Ramsay and twenty men trying to seize the Dreadfort from within. It would have worked as well, for Lord Domeric still didn't believe his brother responsible for the 'illness' that had left permanent effects on him and had thusly been unprepared for any attack from the inside, but Lady Sansa's direwolf Lady had alerted her master that something was off. Sansa had woken Domeric and barred herself and the infant Royce in their chambers, as Lord Domeric roused his men as Ramsay and his engaged them.

Near fifty Bolton men-at-arms and servants had died before Ramsay was subdued. Lord Domeric had nearly flayed his brother alive in his wrath, but Lady Sansa had urged him to leave the matter in the hands of her brother, in an attempt to both strengthen the northern lords' belief in their young leader and spare her husband the stain of kinslaying. Lord Brandon at only six and ten had ridden to the Dreadfort and condemned Ramsay to die, following the old way of the North by beheading the unstable Snow himself.

But that was all the past, and this was the present. Luke knew Lord Domeric had more on his mind than a mere introduction, and after only a few moments of chatter with young Royce and Alysanne he urged them to dance once more. Luke was smiling at Bolton even before the two were out of earshot. "Tell me, my lord, what are you offering, furs or lumber?"

Domeric smiled back, not the least bit abashed. " _Iron_ , Lord Lucaerys. My vassal Lord Belthasar Locke and I have opened three mines on his land, and the returns have been quite impressive so far."

Luke cocked an eyebrow. "Aye, now that is something I can deal in."

And so they did.

Lord Domeric was not the first lord to approach him that night intent on making a trade deal, nor would he be the last. The Lighting of the Lions, the poetic name given to the brutal deed of the destruction of Lannisport at the hands of Luke's grandfather Aelor, had been terrible for the Lannisters but excellent for Duskendale. Nearly all of the evacuated civilians had resettled on the opposite coast, in the very home of the man who had burned theirs. They had brought with them their skills and trades, as well as their connections to foreign merchants and ports. The populations of Duskendale had tripled, and in the coming years so did it's revenues. Goldsmiths, spice traders, masons; all had rebuilt their lives and their trades under the warring white dragon banner, and had attracted traders from as far as Qarth to their home port. Now, near forty years later, Luke was reaping the benefits, as Lords near and far wished to have access to the abundance of goods found within the two-walled city.

And he was more than prepared to make them pay for it.

Lucaerys' grandfather had been an unparalleled warrior and his father a promising swordsman himself, but that was not where Luke's true skills lay. Oh, he was decent enough with a mace and better with a lance, but he knew his limitations well. Lucaerys' had a mind for trade and stewardship, and had honed his diplomatic skills to assist in those endeavors. Even now, when he hadn't been in his home city for more than a fortnight over the past half a year, he could tell you exactly what was being produced and in what quantities, tell you which of the silversmiths in his city had the best prices and which had the best work, two facts that rarely ever found a home in the same business. He knew the amount of Myrish lace expected to arrive in the next month, knew the individual dressmaker's part of said shipment was going to, and knew the trader and guards caravanning it east to Harrenhal. He could tell you the exact figures from the last three years of Duskendale trade and the exact amount of coin he had paid to the crown in trade taxes from the last five. Business, for what it was, was booming.

But even as Luke struck more than one deal and turned down plenty of others, he kept his mission in the back of his mind. He used small talk—which the opposite lords likely thought part of a negotiating tactic—to sniff around his true questions, leaving small directory statements and feelers. Most either had no idea and continued on oblivious that the conversation had a double meaning or were very good at hiding their true thoughts, though there were a few who reacted as if they knew more than they let on. Luke was careful not to push too hard or make himself seem unduly interested in the lords of the latter category, and made a point of returning to the dance floor more than once, trying to appear for all the world like a young man simultaneously enjoying a feast and using it as an opportunity to secure assets for his family.

It was rather easy to pull off, for it was true. He _was_ enjoying the feast, and he _was_ using it as an opportunity to advance his own lordships interest; he just also happened to be investigating for the King of the Iron Throne.

The King in question knew perfectly well that Lucaerys was carrying out his interests, but even a trained intriguer would never have known, for the Prince That Was Promised seemed to be having as fine a time as anyone present. King Aegon was past forty, the blessings of youth having for the most part left him, but he still danced as he had when he had been seven and ten. His smile had lost none of its charm as he first spun Rhaella Targaryen of the Reds—meaning one of the Targaryens living in King's Landing, and in this case the eldest child of Princess Daenerys Stormborn—and then Rhaella Targaryen of the Greens—the Targaryens of the Golden Tooth, in this case Lord Aemon's daughter. There were three other branches of the Targaryen dynasty, the Golds of Summerhall and young Lady Viserra, the Greys of the New North and Prince Jaehaerys, and Lucaerys' own Whites of Duskendale, each identified by the color of the dragon or dragons on their banners.

Luke imagined Aelor would have been proud to see how secure and widespread his family had become, for at one point in the Dragon of Duskendale's life the royal bloodline had been reduced to himself, an old brother of the defunct Night's Watch and five children, barely removed from a war that had sought to kill them all.

Saera near dragged him from amidst negotiations with Lord Edwyn Mallister of the Seagard Mallisters, and he didn't manage to escape the floor before he had danced with her, his laughing wife Daenella, Lady Sansa, Shireen Baratheon, his cousin Aelora Tyrell and a handful of other ladies of higher and lower nobility. Even Queen Aemma insisted on a dance, though both her health and spirits had been dampened since the birth of Vaekar. The labor had nearly killed her, and the maester had been certain she would never conceive another child. The entire process drew terrifying parallels to King Aegon's mother Elia Martell, whose own difficulties in the birthing bed had, when paired with her husband's desperate desire for another daughter, helped lay the foundation for the civil war that had claimed the lives of two Targaryen kings.

Although in hindsight that seemed to have been a blessing of the Seven, for if neither king had died when they did Prince Aelor would never has risen to power, and who knew if the world would look anything like it did now.

He negotiated, he drank, he talked and he listened. He was there when Lords Forrester and Whitehill nearly shed blood under their liege lord's roof, only talked down by the icy and firm commands of Lord Brandon. He watched as Florian Blackwood and Talla Bracken danced in clear adoration of the other, to the fury of both their fathers. He sang along with the crowd when the singer from White Harbor led a round of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair._

And, a long time later, he carried his inebriated wife into their chambers, where hours earlier Baelor and Baela had been put to bed. Luke and his family had been awarded spacious chambers within Winterfell itself, not quite as impressive as those for the Lord Paramounts but better than many other lords of equal ranking to Lucaerys had been given. His position as a surrogate brother to the Lady Winterfell helped of course, as did his surname and his status as a favorite of the king.

It was through those chamber doors that he near fell, Daenella wrapped around him, adding her drunken chuckles to his baritone ones.

"The twins are asleep," his wife said in a low, slurred tone after Luke had deposited her on the bed and turned to close and bar the door. Another luxury of their chambers, for the children and their nursemaid had a separate chamber to themselves, separated by a thick door towards Luke's right.

"Aye," he agreed as he closed the heavy oak and slid the iron bar into place. "Mary took them when she took Prince Vae—" His ability to breath was suddenly gone, forcing the last syllable of what he had to say out in a hoarse half-whisper. "— _kar_."

Daenella was much faster at getting out of clothes than she had ever been at getting into them; Lucaerys swore it was some kind of long-lost Valyrian magic, sorcery of the most sinfully helpful variety. In the time it had taken Luke to drop her on the furs, walk to the door and close and bar it, she had somehow escape the latch of white and silver. It was a most impressive feat given the complexity of the ties and the fact that had his wife had downed one or ten too many glasses of wine. She was waiting wearing only a smile and her underclothes by the time he suffered his shortness of breath, eyebrow raised in invitation. Her voice was breathy and sultry beneath that sinful smile, indigo eyes positively smoldering with a fire that consumed Luke entirely.

"That wasn't my point."

He had his lips on her neck with her hands fighting the ties of his breeches when the knock sounded at the door. "Ignore it," his wife urged, pressing his face back to its original position on her collarbone when he began to turn.

Luke groaned, disentangling himself with a sigh. "You know I can't."

His wife ran a hand down the front of his breeches, biting her lip. "Then get _rid_ of him."

Luke opened the door barefoot and bare-chested, giving not a damn what the person on the other side thought about it. He cursed out loud when it turned out to be Ser Arthur Dayne, his white armor glowing in the relative dark of the hall. _Of course. Of bloody course._

The Sword of the Morning raised an eyebrow at Luke's exclamation and appearance, glancing over the Lord of Duskendale's shoulder. His expression quickly became a sympathetic grimace when he saw the naked woman waiting behind him. "The King has requested your presence, Lord Lucaerys."

Luke glanced back at Daenella before giving the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard a near _begging_ look. "Can't he wait until morning? Or at least half an hour…"

Ser Arthur shook his head sadly. "You know the King. When there's something to be done, he does it then and there, and he _hates_ delays." The Dornishman shrugged and smiled in apology. "Even understandable ones."

Luke looked between his naked wife and the waiting Kingsguard thrice before he gave a long, pained sigh. "At least let me put on a shirt."

* * *

_Loyal fucking Lucaerys, defender of both the crown and my own bloody chastity._

He followed behind the legendary swordsman as they made their way through the darkened Northern fortress. The revelry was done for the night; his wife, who he could be at this very moment bedding, had been one of the last to leave the floor, and by default Lucaerys had been as well. The other nobles had retired to their quarters in Winterfell Winter Town or the city of pavilions and tents outside the walls, leaving only servants to walk the hours of the night, attacking the evidence of debauchery strewn across the castle. _The servants and those like me. One's duty can be a nasty business, and the opposite of pleasurable._

The Alex's, both Red and Blue, stood to either side of the door to the King's grand guest chambers as they passed through it, and the Blooddragon stood within. Six other figures were waiting as well, five sitting and one hovering over another's shoulder.

Grandmaester Dagmer was relatively young for his loft position, only five and thirty and already in his fourth year as the Grandmaester of the Iron Throne. Born on Old Wyk in the Iron Islands, he had sailed to Oldtown and the Citadel as a child, three years before the Cleansing. That had been particularly fortunate for the bastard-born, slightly built man, for the damage and destruction caused from the dragonfire had been particularly vicious on the former seat of House Drumm.

He currently hovered around the left shoulder of King Aegon, draping a cloth over the old arrow wound the King had taken at the Second Battle of the Trident. Several other towels lay close to the fire roaring in the hearth, heating as the one on Aegon's shoulder already had. The King looked up, taking little notice of the healer's ministrations, as Lucaerys entered and gave a customary bow.

"Your Grace. I see the dancing has taken its toll on even you."

Aegon grunted. "Indeed it has, not to mention this weather. I thought I had left snow and temperatures smaller than my grandson's age behind me twenty years ago." Aegon smiled at another figure in the room, seated across from him with his head in his hands. "Though I dare say my son has it worse than I."

Prince Aelor leaned back in his chair with a great groan, his face one of pure misery. "Bloody Umbers. It's like trying to outdrink a fish. They drank me under the table so quickly I'm already half hungover, and I'm still bloody _drunk_."

Another man at the table laughed , his black beard and curly hair despite his relative youth containing more and more gray each time Luke saw him—which wasn't often. Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, Lord of the New North and always more wolf than dragon, had travelled south of the Neck only three times since the conclusion of the Second War for the Dawn, for the Cleansing of the Isles and the births of Aelor and Vaekar. The son of Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark, the latter of whom had passed just the past year of a fever in her only son's castle of Northguard, pointed at Luke with the pinky of his left hand, the only finger he had left on it. The others and the thumb had been lost in the snows of the meanest winter Westeros had seen in centuries, when the Prince and his future wife had led an army of refugee children to Winterfell from the fresh ruins of the Wall. "Never try to outdrink a northerner, Luke. Mayhaps _you_ will heed that advice, for my nephew surely did not."

Another figure, far more attractive than any of the others, chuckled. The Mother of Dragons was truly a beauty of no equal, even with the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. Luke had always had half a crush and half a worship complex for the dragonrider of Aelon, who held more power in the running of the kingdoms than any woman in Westerosi history, even his own grandmother Alysanne, who had retired long before this impromptu meeting. "I imagine he wished he had now, and he _certainly_ will wish he had come morning."

The Prince of Dragonstone gave them an unmistakable and certainly unprincely hand gesture, eliciting a laugh from the other Targaryens in the room. _Save for Baelon of course. I don't believe I've ever seen my uncle laugh in all my days._ King Aegon gestured towards another chair, and Lucaerys move to take it. The final Targaryen, his quiet and wise uncle Aemon, slid his untouched pitcher of water to his nephew, which Luke accepted with a thankful nod. "How does the Queen fair, Your Grace? I noticed she left quite early, and I see she isn't here."

"My wife was worn down early in the evening. It is common for her to tire quickly ever since Vaekar." Luke knew the King held no ill will or disappointment for either his second and youngest child or his wife. He of all people was in position to understand the difficulty that could occur in the birthing bed; his mother Elia Martell had nearly died giving birth to him, and his grandmother Rhaella had had more than her fair share of difficulties in the birthing chamber. "Besides, I wouldn't wish for Aemma to hear what you might have to say."

Lucaerys looked around, to the very walls themselves. "Are you sure you wish for Winterfell itself to hear what I have to say?"

Aegon smirked, the smirk of approval Luke had treasured as a child and then as a squire. "Well done, though I must point out that this is the north, not King's Landing. These walls hold back the cold and hold in the heat; they don't have spies in them. Besides, you're not my only operative, even in the deep north. We are safe to discuss whatever we wish here."

Luke nodded, digesting that bit of information in the back of his mind. "As you say, Your Grace. The grumblings seem to be coming mostly from the eastern Reach and western Stormlands. Lord Poddingfield's heir gave the most visible reaction to my prodding, and while Lord Selmy was much better at hiding his thoughts I believe he also has some affiliation with this rogue faction. Ser Aladore Ashford also gave some physical indications he may have some knowledge."

King Aegon's face gave away nothing, violet eyes on Luke's near identical ones. "And the Lord Paramounts of those regions?"

That the Promised would even asked showed how seriously he was taking these grumblings that may in the end be nothing at all. "I do not believe any of the Lord Paramount's or their families are involved. As you know, both the Reach and Stormlands have close ties to House Targaryen, and have no reason to show anything but support towards Your Grace."

"Many of the lords who fought for Viserys had no reason to show anything but support for myself and your grandfather, but it didn't stop them then and it may not stop them now. I will not take risks of another War of the Three Kings, even if I do have dragons now when I didn't then."

Aelor spoke up then, eyes slowly clearing from the amount of ale he had ingested early in the evening. "I believe you may have just named the root of this disease. Poddingfield, Harvest Hall, Ashford…they are all three relatively close to Summerfield and _Daena_."

The heir to the Iron Throne spat the name like a curse, and Luke couldn't quite blame him. It had been the blessing of the Seven that Lucaerys had been married to sweet, loving Daenella and not her older, jaded twin. The _other_ bastard of Viserys the Betrayer was a mass of pent up anger and near worship of her dead father—no number of tutors, mentors or attempts by family members to integrate her had made so much of a dent. She was smart enough to keep from vocalizing her near-hatred of those that had helped befall her father, and seemed to have a lever inside her that gave her more charm than Lord Bronn of Bronzegate, but the family knew of her true beliefs. She was close to none and rivals with most of them, and even good-natured Daemon, the uncle who had been unfortunately saddled with her, had nearly killed her more than once. She had named their only daughter, born four moons after Daemon's death, the questionable name of Viserra, and had instantly remarried a man of her own choosing, the son and heir of Lord Bowen Meadows, Lord of the Grassy Vale.

It was worth noting that Lord Bowen had dithered when the Reach called its levies, neither swearing for Viserys nor marching to his liege lord's aide. They had been spared in the aftermath of the wars, but had been viewed with suspicion ever since, a suspicion Dany brought to the forefront of this conversation. "And close to Grassfield Keep."

Jaehaerys looked between his brother and aunt, face waiting for an explanation they didn't give. "What are we expecting, a _rebellion?_ No, not enough if any would come to their aide."

Aemon spoke up then, with his slight build and growing gut looking nothing like the man who had flown his dragon over Orkmont and turned it into charred ashes. "And, with no disrespect meant to Dany, their only claimant is a woman."

The Blooddragon's gravelly voice chimed in from his standing positon, Ser Arthur having gone to stand beside him. "A _bitch_ of a woman to boot."

Aelor nodded, still in clear discomfort. "Aye. While her charm can be potent, only a fool can't see it for the manipulative tool it is."

The King was staring at the table in thought as Grandmaester Dagmer once again changed the hot press on his shoulder, though he clearly had been paying attention to the conversation. "Never underestimate the capability of men to be utter fools, Aelor. I've made the mistake more than once and paid for it each time."

Dany placed her hand over Luke's. "Anything else, Lucaerys?"

"No, Princess. I have a few other lords who reacted strangely to my prodding, and will have a list for the King come morning, but I believe them to be unrelated to this potential conspiracy."

Jaehaerys leaned forward. "And just what _is_ this conspiracy? We all know they have no chance of winning a war, and they must know it too, which leaves the question of just what it is they want."

Aemon nodded. "Jae is right. Perhaps if we knew what their goal was, we'd have a better of time of discerning just who is involved."

Luke held his hands up. "That I could not say. It is beyond my knowledge at this time."

His King and mentor looked up from the table. "I have confidence it is within your capability. You're one of my most loyal lords, Lucaerys, and one of my most powerful. Men respect you and gravitate towards you, and you have no small amount of skill in diplomacy."

Dany smiled. "Thanks to myself and mother, I would like to point out."

Aegon continued on, though he gave a shadow of a grin at Dany's statement. "I must ask you to put your skills to work for me again, son. By the end of the festivities here, I want to know the men on your list as if they were on my own blood. Their friends, their rivals, their lovers…all of it."

Luke took it for the dismissal it was, rising to his feet and bowing to his elder family members. "Of course, Your Grace. I will not fail you."

Aegon smiled the approving smile again. "You never have."

Luke turned towards the door, wondering if Daenella would still be awake and willing to continue what had been interrupted. This, the intrigue and mystery, made him feel positively alive. _Loyal Lucaerys, defender of the Crown._

He aimed to earn that title.


	4. Chapter 4

"You look much like your grandfather."

Lucaerys turned from where his half-brother Alaric was fastening on Luke's breastplate, looking to the front of his pavilion. A fat, round man stood at the entrance, smiling a genuine smile on a chubby face, a young boy of five or six peering out from behind his leg. Luke recognized the father for both his girth and the sword slung over one shoulder, though the Seven knew it was unlikely he could wield the lofty blade with any skill. Luke smiled, striding forward, the unfastened breastplate clunking. "Lord Tarly, it is a pleasure."

The Lord of the Westmarch accepted Luke's proffered hand, shaking it in a surprisingly firm grip for such a scholarly looking sort—not that Luke was necessarily surprised, for his uncle Aemon was classically erudite but had turned an island to ash in his youth. Lord Samwell Tarly had close ties and friendships with the Targaryen dynasty, his father having served both King Aegon and the Dragon of Duskendale in times of war. Sam had formed a close friendship with Prince Jaehaerys and Aemon, and a lesser one with Luke's father Renlor. Though he remained in the Reach these days, Luke still had read a good number of his impressive histories, which detailed much of the War of the Three Kings and the Second Battle for the Dawn, during which both Sam's father and younger brother had been killed.

"The pleasure is mine, Lord Luke. Your uncle Aemon speaks highly of you."

"As he does of _you_ , my lord." He eyed the pommel of the Valyrian steel sword strapped across the obese man's back. "Are you participating in the melee today?"

Samwell laughed, belly jiggling. "You and I both know I wouldn't make it very far in that, now don't we? No, I intend to enjoy the melee from the safety of the royal box, where the King has given me and my son Jon the honor of sitting." Samwell turned, ushering his son in front of him and resting his hands on his small shoulders. Luke smiled down at the black haired Jon, whose eyes seemed entranced by the warring white dragons on the black steel of Lucaerys' breastplate. "No, I merely wished to stop and give you my best wishes." The Lord's already soft face softened. "Your father and grandfather were always more than kind to me, even when my own father was not. They were good men, both of them, no matter what stories you may hear to the contrary."

Tarly smiled down at the young boy to his front. "Well, we'd best be off now shouldn't we, Jon? It's never wise to keep a Targaryen waiting. The best of luck to you, Lord Lucaerys. I have no doubt you'll make your father proud."

Lord Sam had barely made it out of earshot, Luke watching after him in thought, before another voice spoke, quieter but commanding of attention. "He's right you know. Aelor would near to burst at the sight of you now."

Luke was smiling before he laid eyes on her, having slipped into his pavilion in the short time he was conversing with Lord Tarly. Alysanne Lefford had more gray in her hair than brown these days, and the beauty she once had had lost its edge, but she was still a handsome woman who wielded much influence in Westerosi politics. She was standing between Alaric and Dontos, the former waiting somewhat impatiently to finish dressing Luke in his armor while the latter was checking the strength of the straps of Luke's shield for the fourth time. Alysanne's eyes were far away, locked on the white dragons on Luke's chest. "You've always looked most like him when you're in armor."

Lucaerys returned to the middle of the pavilion, Alaric returning to tying the clasp with a grumble. "That's by design you know, grandmother. You were the one who helped the smith make this plate as close to my grandfather's as it could be."

Alysanne looked up to him smiling, eyes returning to her grandson's violet ones. "Aye, that I did. I'm just thankful you don't have to don yours nearly as often as Aelor did his." She cocked an eyebrow at him, momentarily staving off some of the wrinkles that were growing more predominant on her still-pretty face. "Speaking of which, I thought you weren't going to participate in today's melee."

Luke shrugged. "I hadn't made up my mind; now I have."

Alysanne didn't look convinced. "And just what made that decision for you?"

_The King. Daenerys. Jaehaerys. Literally everyone but me._ Luke let his eyes move from Alaric to Dontos, both focused on their tasks. "Daenella. She was irritated that I didn't intend to fight for her honor, despite being the reason I didn't even get out of the feasting chamber until early this morning."

Alysanne nodded, the slight quirk in her expression letting Luke know she had picked up on his reluctance to discuss it in front of his young half-brothers. Alaric and Dontos were certainly loyal to Luke, he had no doubts of that, but they were young men with the fondness young men often had for bragging and excessive alcohol. They were a bit too young as of yet to be trusted with the Crown's secrets, and certainly not trained enough in the ways of intrigue.

His grandmother however knew all about the game of thrones, having played it as de facto Queen for near twenty years and as regent of Duskendale for twenty more. The King and Princess Daenerys still often sought her council, and more than one of Lucaerys' 'diplomatic' missions had involved her. He wouldn't be surprised if she knew all about the potential factionalist's threat, and may well be pulling her own strings. She loved him dearly, perhaps even more than she loved her other grandchildren due to Luke being the closest link to her firstborn Renlor, but he had no doubts she kept her own secrets.

Any odd pause in the conversation—there really wasn't one, for Alysanne and Luke were both much too polished to have allowed one to truly grow—was interrupted by Alaric, who was tying the last fastener on Luke's left shoulder. "What is this idea of 'teams' in a melee anyway? I've never heard of that format in my life."

_And you wouldn't have now, if not for the King making a request of Lord Brandon._ "Then I've made a mockery of your education, brother. It's not normal in the south per se, though not unprecedented. It has occurred often in the Northern melees throughout history however, even if single combatants are more the norm here as well. The Melee of the Dreadfort a thousand years before the Conquest was a particular instance of it."

Dontos spoke from the corner, where he was now checking the edge of the axe Luke would be using again. The younger of the Rykker twins had always been meticulous and thorough. "The heir to the King of Winter was slain by the heir to the Dreadfort, who was then slain in turn by the Stark Prince's uncle fighting on the Bolton's team. A war nearly broke out between the flayed man of Bolton and the direwolf of Stark."

Alaric glared at his brother. "Something of a know-it-all, are we?"

Dontos shrug, never looking away from his task. "Better than a know-nothing like yourself."

Luke stopped Alaric halfway to his brother. " _My helm_ , Alaric. Dontos, the axe is as sharp now as it was the first three times you checked. Even if it isn't, I'm not intending on killing anyone today." Luke stretched, his shoulders burning in protest. _I need to practice more; the Seven help me or I'll be half-dead ten minutes in_. "As we were discussing, though, I imagine this is more of an attempt by Lord Stark to be fair to Ser Arthur and the other Kingsguard. Everyone knows they cannot truly battle with Prince Aelor; by having them split among teams, the white knights have a chance to let others engage the Prince without having to yield should they come across him on the field."

Alysanne, having taken a seat at a chair and begun watching her grandson prepare for the mock battle, shrugged. "You have to hand it to Lord Brandon and Saera as it is; they managed to put together the teams quite quickly. There are hundreds of men participating today, and they only implemented the teams a few days ago."

The heir to Hollard Hall grunted. "Well, I'm not much of a fan of it, no matter how impressive a feat it is. I wouldn't like splitting my winnings among a team should I win, particularly if several of them were knocked out of the competition beforehand."

Alysanne ruffled his hair, Alaric ducking out of her reach in embarrassment. "Too bad you're not participating today; you'd teach them all, wouldn't you?"

Daenella floated in, looking immaculate despite having drunk an excess of alcohol for the third night in the row mere hours earlier. "Wasn't it _you_ , Alaric, who spoke of you and your brother being quite the duo mere days ago?" His wife, radiant as ever, greeted him with a kiss before setting her smirk on Alaric. If he hadn't been red before, the elder of the twins certainly was now.

Lucaerys decided to end his boisterous brother's suffering, looking to his wife and slipping an arm around her waist. "You look beautiful as always, my lady, an impressive feat considering your recent love of wine."

Daenella swatted him playfully. "I had to look stunning for my husband when he wins the melee. Plus, I needed to assure no maid tries to take you; you always look particularly striking in your armor." A silver ribbon materialized in her hand, and without preamble she began to tie it around his right bicep.

Luke laughed at her statement. "The only way your husband will be winning this melee is if Ser Arthur Dayne is a member of his team."

Daenella shot him a sultry glance. "As it just so happens, I took a gander at the steward's list. One Sword of the Morning, at your service." She rose to her tiptoes after fastening the ribbon tightly, whispering lowly where only he could hear her. "And if you win, I'll have one seven hells of a surprise waiting tonight."

He walked to the melee field with an anticipatory spring to his step.

Luke kissed his wife and hugged his grandmother as he left them at the side of the royal box where they would be watching the melee with the King. He bowed to his cousin, the Promised smiling back. Queen Aemma, Vaella and Vaekar were seated to his left, and Lord Brandon—the newborn Cellador Stark bundled in his arms—to his right. The King's guests, among them Lord Samwell and Prince Jaehaerys, were also seated there. Blooddragon stood behind the King on the dais, right hand resting on the pommel of his sword. The other Lord Paramounts and their families each had a box reserved for them, spreading in a wide half circle out from the Kings.

"Prepared to lose today, cousin?" Luke turned to the familiar voice, grinning back at the wide smile of Aelor. The Prince of Dragonstone swaggered up, left hand on the ruby pommel of his sheathed sword and right holding his helm under that arm. While the heir to the Iron Throne had based his weaponry on his namesake, his armor was all his own. The plate was black and crimson, and forged to look as if it were made of scales. Red dragon heads made up each shoulder plate, and others curled around the armor of his forearms. Another twisted on the front of his breastplate, and his helm was covered in another dragon head, red teeth jutting down on either side and in between the eyeholes. Ser Mychel Redfort stood slightly behind him, having been assigned rather than selected to the Prince's team, as was to be expected.

"I believe it is _you_ who will be doing the losing today, cousin."

Aelor shoved him lightly. "I've always been better than you with a blade."

Luke took no offense, for it was true. "Aye, maybe so, but I have a Sword of the Morning. He's better than both of us combined."

Aelor laughed, extending a hand which Luke accepted. "It'll be one hell of a fight now won't it? Best of luck to you, Luke."

Luke smiled, returning the best wishes before turning to seek out Lord Brandon's steward. Alaric and Dontos followed behind him, carrying his shield, axe and helm. They found the steward, a middle aged man named Harrion Woods, amidst an influx of men in various colors of armor and surcoats, l0oking haggard and overloaded despite the four Northmen assisting him. Luke slipped in, got directions to where his team was forming, and slipped out without causing the man too much strife.

There were ten men to a team, supposedly grouped together from a random selection process. For all but two of those teams that was the case, but Aelor of course had one of the Kingsguard, and for a good portion of Luke's team there had been no randomness to it at all.

The first man he saw when he approached where Woods had directed him was a familiar face above white Kingsguard armor, the greatsword Dawn being polished. Ser Arthur Dayne looked as calm as if he were merely preparing for a training session, not a melee—while they weren't intended to be deadly, many a man had been killed in the heat of the combat at the heart of one. The Sword of the Morning grinned at Lucaerys as he approached, knowing full well that their being assigned to the same team was no matter of chance. "Lord Lucaerys," he greeted. "An honor to fight beside you."

"The honor is mine, Lord Commander," Luke returned as he tightened the shield on his left arm. "If I hadn't have been confident in my chances beforehand, I certainly am now." Luke took his helm, complete with the famous white flames once worn by his grandfather, from Alaric, lowering it over his head. It was nearly identical to the helm that currently was displayed in the Dun Fort of Duskendale, minus only the scar of a Lannister blade and other evidence of the many battles it had seen. Dontos handed him his axe, Luke holding it in the fingers of his left hand before clasping both of his brothers by the forearms and sending them on their way.

"Luke," called a voice, and the Lord of Duskendale turned towards it. A tall, lean man approached, his armor silver and steel with the moon and falcon of House Arryn on the breastplate. The helm, tucked under the speaker's arm, had another elaborate falcon perched atop it, and the pommel of the sword at his side was shaped like a curved beak. A blue cloak with more falcons of silver flowed behind him, the hem dragging over the snow and mud.

Lucaerys reached an arm out to clasp the other man by the wrist. "Rodrik, good to see you. I haven't noticed you or my sister at any of the feasts."

Rodrik Arryn, heir to the Vale, had the cornsilk hair of his father Lord Artys and brown eyes of his mother Margaery Tyrell. A good swordsman, he had married Luke's eldest half-sibling, eighteen year old Priscilla, a year past. "Aye, we've only just arrived. Cilla has been sick for a few weeks now, and we spent longer in White Harbor than my father and mother." His goodbrother gave him a small smirk. "We're hoping she's with child."

Luke returned the smile. "I hope so as well. Congratulations." He turned to another figure who had approached with Rodrik, looking up and up and _up._ This figure was every bit of seven feet in height, and in place of steel and heraldry he wore mail and furs, clearly a Northman. He was young though still older than either Luke or Rodrik, with pox scars and a thickly bearded face. "You, my good man, have the look of an Umber."

The giant shook his head. "Woolfield, actually." His scarred cheeks quirked up as he grinned. "But my mother was one." He extended a hand the size of Luke's head. "Hullen, heir to Ramsgate."

Luke took it, feeling positively tiny. "Lucaerys, Lord of Duskendale. An honor."

Three other randomly selected men were his companions for the day. Ser Alan Bronzegate, heir to Lord Bronn of Bronzegate, had the cunning of his former-sellsword father and the nobility of his Stokeworth mother. Ser Sigmund Sawyer, middle-aged and carrying a morningstar, was of a minor knightly house in the Reach. Ser Kyle Hayford had actually been born a bastard Kyndall of the Westerlands, but had taken the name and arms of his wife Lady Ermesande on their wedding day. Ser Stannis was a former hedgeknight who had been taken into permanent service by Lord Whent of Harrenhal, his arms a simple white raven on a red field. None of them were overly skilled fighters, but none of them were likely to shame themselves or their compatriots either.

Of course, it was the other two men Luke was most interested in.

Ser Aladore Ashford wore a cloak of orange and white, and had a reputation as a skilled fighter. Ser Lorent Poddingfield didn't, but he at least looked like one in his green and white heraldry. Neither gave him a second glance, but they _did_ start slightly when realizing they were together. It had been risky, putting two representatives of the three potentially rebellious houses on the same team, but they had countered the threat by ensuring the most dangerous of the three, Lord Selmy, started with a team on the opposite side of the field. Poddingfield and Ashford were younger, less suspecting and more likely to give up indications, and it was for those reasons they had been paired with Lucaerys and Ser Arthur.

Loyal Lucaerys had a plan, but it revolved around his team winning the massive melee about to kick off. That was where Ser Arthur and Rodrik Arryn came into play.

Many southern melees began with the combatants mounted, but that was not the case today. In a field outside Winterfell where years earlier three trenches had been dug and lit to hold back waves of wights, the teams of men discussed their strategies among themselves, spread out in a massive horseshoe, clearly intended to crash in on itself as the fighting drug on, bringing them closer to the royal box and other nobility seated at the mouth.

While this was similar to war in many regards, there was a noticeable difference. _Or so I've been told. There have been three wars in my lifetime, and each ended before I was seven namedays old._ While the weapons used in the melee were live steel, your goal was not to kill your opponent but merely force a yield. With that in mind, his uncle Baelon—who was perhaps the most infamous warrior in Westeros—claimed you maintained a level of conscious thought that wasn't present in battle. While you were focused on beating but not killing your opponent in a melee, in a war the most skilled fighters became a part of the battle itself. You breathed, you lived, you struck, you killed and you shouted with little physical thought involved, except for an odd part of the mind that spoke as if it were an observer separated from it all. Men who had fought both with and against Lucaerys' grandfather claimed he was the battle and the war wrapped all in one; men who fought by his side had felt they could conquer the world, while those who faced him felt as if nothing could stand against the black-armored demon.

Luke didn't know much about that. He hadn't fought in a true war, and jousting was more a sport than true training. In truth Luke didn't _want_ a war, unlike so many men his age; he wondered if that made him cowardly or smart.

The long bellow of a horn brought him back to reality, and he took the axe from the fingers of his left to the soli grip of his right. Ser Arthur spoke from beside him as the other men likewise readied themselves, preparing to sprint forward at the second horn. "Remember lads, watch one another's back. And don't be too proud to yield when defeated; it's better to brood over yielding than meet the Gods before your time." Luke took a long, calming breath.

And then the second horn sounded, and all hell broke loose.

They made for the team nearest their right, which ended up being wise for that team had opted to attack them first as well. Luke barreled for a man in white and black, catching his sword on his shield before striking with his axe. The knight—of House Swann, judging by the color scheme and the graceful birds on his chest—deflected it with his own shield, striking high again. They exchanged blows for some amount of time, though Luke couldn't have said how long. It ended when Luke struck the knight's shield a particularly hard blow, the blade sinking deep into the oak. The Swann gave out a pained grunt, Luke nearly losing a grip on his long axe when the knight's arm went limp. _I've broken the arm. Apologies, Ser._ Luke wretched the axe free, raising it again although he didn't bring it down. As he had expected, his opponent waved his good arm. "I yield, m'lord."

Luke nodded, turning to gather his wits. Ser Arthur had already driven deeper into the thickening mass of fighting men, and Rodrik Arryn was not far behind. Luke followed, bashing another man senseless with his shield and disarming a third. His compatriots stayed somewhat together, for Luke would catch glimpses of Ser Arthur or Rodrik and occasionally Ser Kyle and the hulking Hullen, though Ser Lorent was likely knocked out early—Luke never saw him once after the horn.

Ser Aladore stayed near him, though, as good with a blade as the rumors had claimed. _Excellent._

Melees were long and bloody affairs, and as predicted Luke wore out quickly, but his adrenaline and the knowledge that he needed to do well for his mission's sake kept him moving. That and his team, for once a knight in the colors of House Royce had been about to force a yield when Hullen Woolfield cracked him over the head with a mace and a laugh, and twice Ser Arthur rallied to his side when Luke was beset upon by two or more opponents. In those instances, Luke did his best to simply get out of the way; Ser Arthur was a maelstrom of white armor and silver blade, and Luke did his best to stay out of the way.

Luke _did,_ however, manage to return those favors thrice for Ser Aladore.

It took hours, Luke's arms nearly dead and his breathing heavy, before the melee sunk to only a few competitors. Of Luke's team only he, Ser Arthur and Ser Aladore remained, Rodrik and Hullen having been forced to yield by Alex the Red before Ser Arthur defeated his sworn brother. Ser Stannis had made it farther than his other compatriots, having been removed mere minutes earlier. In the field turned sloppy with mud and shed blood—though thankfully bereft of corpses—Luke turned to face the last of his opponents, exhausted but thrilled that it had all gone as intended.

As fate would have it, it was Aelor who came barreling for him.

Luke grinned through his gasps for breath and the sweat stinging his eyes. Many men would have yielded by virtue of fighting the prince—it was dangerous to risk bodily harm to one of royal blood, much less to the heir to the throne. Though many had made a show of fighting Aelor, it was unlikely that all had tried to the best of their abilities.

Luke had no such reservations.

The two Targaryens clashed in a whirl of steel.

They'd sparred countless times throughout the years, though not as much in the last few. They each knew the others tendencies and their strengths, and with that knowledge they knew each other's weaknesses as well. Because of that, Luke lasted longer against Aelor than he would another swordsman of equal talent, the two men locked in their own duel as the other remaining fighters brawled it out around them.

But Aelor was better in the end, as they both had already known he was. Luke made a good show of it, keeping his cousins sword at bay for a long while, but eventually one of his parry's was too slow, and a strong strike from Aelor sent Luke's chipped and dulled axe from his hands.

The Lord of Duskendale didn't think twice. He dropped his shield, lowered his head and rammed his shoulder into Aelor's middle, wrenching his lighter cousin off of his feet and stomping forward a few strides before slamming them both to the ground.

He heard the Prince of Dragonstone's breath leave his lungs in a great heave over the sound of their armors crashing together. They both knew Aelor was better with a blade, but Luke was bigger and stronger; they both knew that too. The Lord of Duskendale had wrenched his cousin's blade away in only a few moments, and while he couldn't speak around his gasping lungs, the heir to the Iron Throne waved his hand in surrender.

Luke looked up, his own breath in heavy pants, and looked dumbly at the end of the flying morningstar for a fraction of a second before it knocked him back to the ground.

When Luke finally opened his eyes, Aelor's smirking grin was the first thing he saw. "I'd feel worse for you, cousin, if you hadn't beaten me."

Luke sat up groggily, noticing a ring of armor had formed around him. Ser Arthur looked down at him concernedly, Ser Mychel Redfort sheepishly. "I apologize, Lord Lucaerys. I might have put a bit more into that blow than I should have.

Luke waved a hand in dismissal, though his world was still spinning. "Did we win?"

The voice of Ser Aladore answered. "Yes, Lord Luke."

Aelor reached out a gauntlet, pulling Luke to his feet and steadying him one he was there. "Aye, you bastard. Though I feel slightly better than I otherwise would; Ser Mychel made a wreck of your helm."

Luke eyed the crumpled, dented steel in Ser Aladore's hands for a moment before the panic came over him. He shot a hand to his face, feeling at his cheek although he still wore gauntlets. "My face…"

Aelor laughed. "Is unscathed, though it'll likely be black and blue come the feast. I advise you crown and claim your winner's prize beforehand." The Prince winked, and Luke followed his eyes to where Daenella stared at him from fifty yards away. Even at that distance Luke could see the concern on her face.

And the lust.

He felt better already.

Luke entered the feast some hours later with a big—and painful—smile on his bruised face.

His cousin, gracious in defeat, had helped him towards the royal box, Luke still unsteady on his feet. Though Lucaerys' had been eliminated at the end, Ser Arthur had gone on to defeat the last few competitors and claim victory. Luke had stood with his companions, covered in mud and unable to take his eyes off of his wife, as each man from Ser Arthur who had truly won to Ser Lorent who hadn't beaten a soul were given their share of the substantial purse. Luke didn't really care for the money—he was Lord of Duskendale, and that had serious incomes. It was the reward Daenella had given him that he had truly been after.

That and the benefits to his mission that he was about to reap.

He went looking for Ser Lorent or Ser Aladore and managed to find them together. Luke took a seat across the table from both, wielding a bottle of Arbor Gold in either hand. "To my fellow victors!"

They grinned back at him, but for much different reasons than the one behind Luke's gregarious grin. _Everything's better with some wine in the belly._

_And the lips flap free._

Luke settled in for a long night of sin and secrets.


	5. Chapter 5

"Bloody hell, boy, how many bottles did it take?"

Luke grinned at his King, all three of them. "Um…more than two."

Center Aegon stood from his chair, striding forward to grip Lucaerys' arms. Left Aegon and Right Aegon came with him. "I can tell. Baelon, rouse the others. Arthur, bring Luke a chair."

He only stopped grinning because his cheeks started to abruptly hurt, finding himself suddenly seated in an upholstered seat. Ow. Why did happiness just hurt? I thought happiness is supposed to be…happy. The Seven can be such cunts.

The Three Kings had retaken their own seats in front of him, their eyes looking over Luke's head. "If Luke is this bad, how destroyed are the others?"

A melodic voice spoke from behind him, and Luke turned to find himself staring at an angel. Her hair was long and silver, pinned above her head save for two strands that curled down beside either side of her face. Cheekbones, prominent and perfect, were covered by the palest, most salivating skin he had ever seen. Indigo eyes, so beautiful they nearly tore his soul out, were peering down at him with a touch of mirth, the fullest, most attractive lips he'd ever seen twisting into a small smile.

And there were three of her.

"Ser Lorent is passed out in his own vomit on the floor under the same table Ser Aladore is trying to convince a maid to have sex on top of. That maid happens to be over fifty and missing most of her teeth, but you would think her Cersei Lannister to hear Ashford talk." Luke shot to his feet as that voice sent shivers down his drunken spine, only to have the treacherous stone beneath his feet up and walk away without him. He found himself sprawled on his back, the angels suddenly hovering over his head.

He said the first thing that came to his mind. "You are the most breathtaking creatures I have ever seen in my life. Ever. Without doubt. I'm a Targaryen, I don't lie." That's a lie. But what they don't know can't…can't…doesn't matter.

The angels smiled again, reaching hands—there were more than three, but who in the world ever needed to count above that?—to brush the back of his head. Ow. See, pain is supposed to hurt, not happiness. The Seven are just. "I'll be the last creature you ever see if you try to stand again. Could I ask your assistance, Ser Arthur, in getting my husband to his feet?"

Husband? HUSBAND? Luke stared at the sirens as they and three men in white armor pulled him to his feet, Luke's jaw hanging open. "I'm married to you sweet creatures? All three of you?"

The angels—his wives, apparently—giggled, and Luke had never heard a more heavenly sound. "If you'll excuse me, Your Grace, I'll fetch a bucket of water and ice. I doubt Luke will be much use to you in this state."

The three Aegon's had a touch of humor in their voice, though Luke picked up on a hint of annoyance as well as he was resettled into the same comfy chair he'd first heard the angels from. "Please do, my dear. I knew he'd do whatever it took to get what we needed, but I hadn't expected him to go this far. Has he…"

"He has said nothing to me, Your Grace, aside from demanding I bring him here. Whatever secrets you have or he has just garnered, they are still safe. If you will excuse me."

Luke heard all of this in the back of his mind, his eyes intent on the beautiful angels as his mind raced. Well, raced was too fast of a word; it stumbled more like, so slow Luke would've been angry at his mind if he wasn't looking at the most beautiful women in the world. Wives. I have wives. Wait, I know that. But I thought I only had one? Did I get more? But if I got more, how do they all look alike? Wouldn't that be…weird? And since when was there three King Aegons? Something...

That thought process was stopped cold when the three angels stepped out the door, only to be replaced by three more. These angels were different though, their silver hair hanging down their back and wearing less revealing dresses, much to Luke's consternation. They seemed older too, more matronly, and they weren't quite as beautiful as his wives, though it was a close thing. They eyed him, eyes violet, and a smile shadowed their faces. Angels are happy all the time I guess. They smile at me a lot.

"How is he going to give a report like…that?"

The Aegons responded. "Daenella has a plan."

Luke tried to spring to his feet again at the name, though this time he found himself trapped. Looking up, he realized the three men in white armor were behind him, hands gripping his shoulders and keeping him firmly pressed to his seat. "Daenella!" Luke shouted at them, head gawked backwards. "That's the name of the first angel!"

The men in white smiled, the second angels laughed and the Aegons grunted. "Seven save me."

Luke was trying to figure out why there was three of everyone and everything, many figures walking through the three doorways, when the first angels returned, each holding a bucket in their arms. He smiled what he hoped to be a charming smile as they sat their buckets on a table that one of the new sets of three had drug to rest in front of Luke, mind scrambling to find something flirtatious yet tasteful to say to his three gorgeous women. They spoke instead. "Would you like to do the honors, Your Grace?"

"With pleasure." Luke turned to peer at the Kings as they neared him, wondering what they were talking about. He didn't quite manage a shout when they gripped him by the head and unceremoniously shoved his head into one of the buckets.

Luke waved his arms frantically as he was suddenly plunged under freezing water, breath knocked from his lungs. Strong hands restrained his flailing limbs, just as the strong grip on his head held him firm for a long, cold minute before pulling him back up. Luke took a gasping breath, water flowing down his face, before the Aegons shouted out cheerily "Again!" and he was suddenly returned to the water.

It took two more dunks and a slight scolding of Aegon by Aemon before Luke was finally left in peace, soaked from head to shoulders but suddenly much less drunk. As his world clarified, he looked around to see the same faces peering at him, although now there was only one of each. Aegon was grinning like a child a few feet away, hands and forearms nearly as wet as Luke's head. The second trip of angels had resolved into one smiling Daenerys, and the three men in white became Ser Arthur. Aemon was chuckling, as was Jaehaerys. Aelor, having reversed roles with Luke from the first middle-of-the-night meeting, was laughing loudly, his sober eyes winking mirth at his cousins' drunken ones. Even the Blooddragon seemed amused, though his stony mask of an expression had no cracks. Alysanne, his sweet grandmother, was also present, shaking her head in reprimand though a smirk found purchase on her aging lips.

Laughing louder than all of them was the first trio of angels, who was still his wife but had become one figure instead of three. Good, I suppose. One Daenella is near insatiable; three of them would be the death of me.

He didn't let his mind wonder at how glorious a death it would be.

Luke glared at her, world still spinning somewhat but much more sober than he had been mere moments. "This was your idea."

Daenella nodded, unashamed. "Revenge, from the first time you cured me of a hangover."

"You were four and ten and I was even younger."

"And the method works as wonderfully now as it did then." Daenella chuckled again, though her face sobered as much as Luke's body had when she turned to the king. "I believe I will retire now, with Your Grace's permission. Ser Baelon, please see my husband makes it safely to my chambers whenever your…business is complete."

The mirth of the Targaryen clan was smashed at her words, all smiles gone as the Lady of Duskendale turned to leave the room, stopping only to kiss Luke on his beginning-to-throb forehead. Luke watched her, the knowledge he had gleaned cutting like a knife as he watched the woman who was so horribly entwined yet completely unaware leave.

He was as surprised as Daenella was when Aegon's kingly voice stopped his wife in the doorway. "Come back, Daenella. Whatever Lucaerys has to say, good or bad, you have the right to hear it. Though I warn you, you may wish you hadn't."

Daenella turned, shock evident on her face. While Luke had been privy to the intrigues and maneuvering that made the Targaryen Empire run since he was still half a boy, having helped shape many of them in the years since, he had never been give leave to speak of them with his wife. Whatever her personality or her relationship with the facets of power, all of which cared for her as much as they did Lucaerys, she was still the daughter of Viserys the Betrayer. She was family, bastard or no, but no one who had lived through the War of the Three Kings could forget what her father had done. Her twin Daena's constant ribbings had harmed any chance of goodwill Daenella could build up, and while she had known since before they were even married that Luke did a great many things for the King that she would never discern, the knowledge that there was a part of his life that she'd never touch had been a shadow on their marriage, just as the reasoning for their betrothal was. It was a miracle, really, that they had found the happiness they had with all the factors fighting against them.

Even so, Luke felt a moment of panic after the King's words, intensified when his wife quietly took a seat beside him and slipped one hand into his. He'd learned much from a drunken Aladore Ashford and Lorent Poddingfield, his carefully chosen words that could by some have been considered treasonous gaining their trust bit by bit, added by more bottles of wine than Luke could fairly remember. He'd used Daenella's name for the sake of the Seven, citing his marriage to Daena's sister in hopes it might get him the information he sought.

It had, and more besides. It'd taken him most of the night and more wine than he'd ever drank in the rest of his life combined, but he'd finally cracked Lorent Poddingfield's exterior.

And now he was going to have to say it all in front of his wife. He would have to admit to her face that he had been investigating rumors about her sister, her bloody twin, and that he had never told her a word about any of it.

Aegon's voice cut into his inner panic. "The floor is yours, Luke. Or do you need another swim?"

"No, no," Luke said, eyes still on Daenella. "My head is as clear now as it ever has been." He hesitated, jaw working slightly, unable to from words as his wife's confused eyes bore into his.

"Well," Jaehaerys cut in, though not impatiently. The Wolf Prince looked from Luke to Daenella, his face almost sympathetic.

Luke hesitated only a moment longer, before he let out a deep sigh. Looking to his wife's hand clutched in his, he finally just blurted out what his two 'comrades' had told him. "Daena is trying to usurp you, Your Grace. Alester Tyrell is in on it."

The power of the Iron Throne sat in shocked silence, broken only by Daenella. "Daena? You've been following rumors of my sister committing treason without saying a word to me?"

Aegon came to Luke's defense, which was for the best considering Lucaerys' found his tongue tied as he tried to meet his wife's pained eyes. "Do not hold it against him, Daenella. He acted only on my command for silence. If you are to be angry, that anger should be directed only at me."

His wife's voice was indeed angry, though her eyes remained on Luke. "With respect, Your Grace, you are my King, not my husband. One of those has every right to keep knowledge form me, but the other… If Daena is acting foolish, why on the earth was I not asked to speak to her? She is my sister, I can reach her mind wherever it is."

Aegon's voice was calm and understanding, though it held a sliver of steel that set Luke's heart to worrying about where his wife's sharp tongue might lead her. "You were not to know. The only reason you would have ever known is that I deemed you adult enough to hear it. You are beginning to prove me unwise in this."

Luke gripped her hand tighter when she responded, willing her to keep her silence. "'Adult enough'. You mean you decided I was loyal enough. That I wasn't my father."

Luke tried to save her before he got herself killed. "Daenella, please—"

"Please nothing." She snatched her hand from Luke's lap, and his growing fear was rivaled by pain at the gesture.

Aegon's voice had become all steel now, still calm but riddled with a touch of anger. "Silence. If you cannot remain with your tongue in your head, you may return to your chambers. Ser Arthur will accompany you, and remain there until this matter is settled. And mayhaps even after."

Alysanne, seated to Daenella's left, placed a hand on her shoulder. Daenella seemed to melt into it, eyes going to her lap. She spared Luke no other glance. "I am sorry, Your Grace. My emotion got the better of me."

Aegon let the silence go for a moment, eyes on Daenella. Baelon of all people, standing behind the King, reached out to nudge the monarch lightly, and the fire went out of the Promised's eyes. Aegon nodded as if to himself, face becoming that of a father instead of a king. "It is alright. I understand your pain, Daenella, perhaps more than anyone, but be wary that you never speak to me like that again." He looked back to Luke. "Proceed, Lord Lucaerys. Every detail."

Luke stared above the King's head, unable to meet anyone's eyes. He didn't wish for any of them to see the pain there, much less his mentor. "Daena is marshalling support for an eventual rise. As we expected, Grassy Vale, Poddingfield, Harvest Hall and Ashford are hers. Alester Tyrell is also in her camp."

Jaehaerys was unconsciously rubbing the stump of his left hand. "Why? He is the king's nephew, and we have done well by the Tyrell's since the days of Aelor."

Others nodded in agreement, Alysanne among them. "His mother is a Targaryen, the only sister of the King. His father has supported us since the days of his father. Alester has no reason to wish Aegon replaced with Daena."

"And he doesn't. The eventual rise Daena has planned isn't for her, it is for Alester."

That statement brought another round of stunned silence. Aegon broke it. "Explain."

Luke nodded. "Alester has Targaryen blood and commands the most men of any Lord Paramount, as well as the second largest navy in the world. While I'm sure none of us saw a chance of this in him, he has always been ambitious. In his eyes, he has a better claim to the throne than many."

Aelor's voice was icy. "Not as good as mine or my sons, any fool would admit as much."

Luke conceded with a shrug. "Yes, but better than Robert Baratheon's. We all know the war he waged."

Jaehaerys grunted. "He had incentive. Aerys was mad, and my father running away with my mother gave grave insult."

"I know this as well as you, my lord, but Alester has notions. He is well beloved in the Reach and on the tourney circuit, and he is doubtless using his time as regent in Highgarden to test more of these waters. In his mind, warped with ambition, he has a chance."

Aemon was staring at the table, mind lost in thought. "Something doesn't make sense. Daena has never struck me as the sort to give something to someone else that she believes she has a right to."

Daenella, Alysanne's hands still on her shoulder, spoke, much to Luke's surprise. She still didn't look at him. "She isn't."

Luke, eyes pleading for his wife to at least glance at him, spoke on. "I believe this is all a part of a greater scheme. We all think Daena rash and hot-tempered, but she is showing intents for this to be a long plot, not a short one. My belief, and I stress it as such, is that she intends to use Alester and his armies to take the throne, and then claim it for herself."

"How." It was Baelon's gravelly voice, the Blooddragon staring at him intently.

"By using the same thing that is keeping most thoughts of open rebellion at bay. Dragons."

A chorus of snorts and scoffs filled the room, covered by Aelor's disbelieving voice. "Come off it. Neither Aemon nor Dany would have any reasoning for siding against father."

"No, cousin, I'm sure you're right on that." He turned to Dany, who had been silently observing the meeting. "But she aims to give Vaelon one."

The Princess's pale skin turned white at the mention of her son, and then became a fierce red as anger made her clench her fists. "Vaelon? What is she intending for Vaelon."

"Nothing yet, aunt. As I said, this is a long game for Daena, something she doesn't intend to pay dividends for years. Vaelon has a dragon, a small one but one that will grow. To my understanding, and much of this is conjecture on my own part, she believes to rally him to her cause as he grows. Gifts here, compliments there, promises. One day he and Raedes will be grown, just as you and uncle Aemon and the King will not always be the riders of the three senior dragons. Bit by it she will rally houses and resources, and then she will carry out her war." Luke finally met the king's violet eyes. "She likely intends to use Vaekar as well, once he and Viserra are married. Power can change the heart of even the noblest of men, and I know of no Targaryen who has ever lacked for ambition."

Aegon spoke quietly, mind in thought. "I know of one. Aelor."

Jaehaerys nodded. "Aye. Is that all, Luke?" When Lucaerys' nodded, the Wolf Prince looked to his brother, resting his maimed hand on the King's shoulder. "I have plenty ideas, as I'm sure everyone here does. But I'll ask what I asked you before we took Pyke, when the Greyjoys had prisoners lining the walls. What would Aelor do?"

Aegon was silent a long moment, and when he spoke his voice was quiet and certain, though his eyes remained on the table. "He would kill every Ashford, Meadows and Poddingfield, and Alester Tyrell besides. He would storm Summerhall and take Viserra hostage, throwing Daena into the black cells for the rest of her life. He'd burn Grassfield Keep to the ground and salt her fields. He'd unleash dragonfire on every man, woman and child who had any part large or small in this."

Jaehaerys nodded, eyes going to the table to join the King's. Silence filled the room, each Targaryen waiting for the King's command to do just that. But it was Alysanne, her own voice just as certain, who broke the silence. "But you are not him."

Aegon nodded, and he looked up to meet the gazes of the room. The King's violet eyes were confident and unwavering, his shoulders set and back straight. "No. I am not the Dragon of Duskendale. Ser Arthur." The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stepped forward from his position near the door. "Rouse Sam Tarly. Have him meet me in this chamber at once." The Kingsguard knight nodded, turning to hastily exit the room. "Baelon, gather my sister. She needs to know of this, now that her son is involved." Blooddragon likewise exited. "Mother, escort Daenella back to her and Luke's chambers. Remain with her until I send you word." The once de facto Queen rose to her feet, prompting the stunned young woman she still clutched to do the same. Luke reached for his wife's hand, but she pulled away as she and Alysanne followed the knights of the Kingsguard out.

Aegon's next command eliminated any thought Luke had of following her. "Dany, Aemon, prepare Aelon and Rhaegal. Luke, go with them." The King's gaze focused on the man who had unraveled this tale of treachery. "You are all going for a ride."


End file.
